I-You-Holy Ground

I am the dusty ground, low and dry

thirsty for the imprint of holy feet.

Despoil with radiant prints, this virgin ground.


You are the rain, falling deftly

upon my brown soil. Now is left

your footprint on this ground.


I am the ashen leaves, curling and broken

awaiting but a whisper. For only then

can I fall on solid ground.


You are the soundless wind, howling, still.

You creep up behind me and

exhale me to the ground.


I am the snow, disembodied worlds of cold

and chance encounters with hand, or tongue,

eye-lash or palm needing ground.


You are the frozen air in which I am held

aloft, drawn slowly down

to meet with others on the frozen ground.


I am the waning autumn death

soon to give way to the long silence-when one Voice

becomes the loudest ground.


You are the Voice that speaks

heard best in dying, power given for

rising from this shivering ground.


I am the distant hours, the midnight passing-

the refusing minutes, trapped in hours,

running from the years of ancient ground.


You are the many, and the one, and all time

and nothing and everything from nothing

where time has no ground.


I am the weeping, the squalid groaning,

the unrequited miseries of misery’s company

laying crippled and diffused in the ground.


You are the end of tears and years, the question

and the answer, the sutured nerve of joy, not suggested

but present, here, on this Holy Ground.

2 thoughts on “I-You-Holy Ground

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